


A Life Less Ordinary

by nutmeag83



Series: A Life Less Ordinary [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Sherlock, M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, but not called out by the characters, but very minor Mary/John-practically nonexistant, they just accept it so you should too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A homeschooled John enters university at 16 and ends up rooming with the only other young person in their year, 15-year-old genius Sherlock Holmes. He learns how to deal with Sherlock's quirks, and Sherlock learns how ordinary people work (well, sort of). They fall in love, but only in that quiet way of long-time friends, and they go on adventures (but those are definitely not quiet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First things first. I'm new to the whole fanfic writing thing (though I've read it for years), but I just got this idea in my head and it needed to get out. This work is unbetaed and unBrit-picked because I'm clueless as to how to go about finding people, so if anyone wants to volunteer for either job, you're hired! I'm American, but tried to keep the speech and even the narrative as British as possible; however, I'm sure there are some glaring issues there...
> 
> Second, I actually rarely read college/uni AUs, but these boys sprang from my head as students, so that's what they are. I moved ages around to get everyone in one place, so Sherlock and John are only a year apart, Molly is older than them, and Lestrade and Anderson are just a few years older than that. I'm torn with trying to give John a personality fairly close to the one he has on the BBC show, since that one is so informed by his time in the army, but I feel like the basics of him wouldn't be too changed from that (he still loves adventures and helping people, after all). If I decide to continue their adventures, I probably won't give him a gun or make him Sherlock's bodyguard, unless for some reason he ends up military down the road.
> 
> Third, the story that popped into my head was about these boys and their relationship, not so much with their adventures. Again, if I end up writing more stories down the road, I would like to focus on that, but for now, I just want to concentrate on how they grow together. Sidenote: Sherlock is asexual, but it's never mentioned in so many words in the story. It's just a fact accepted by both him and John. I might speak on it more when I get to that chapter.
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for taking the time to check out my story. I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a mix-up with the room arrangements and we meet our boys.

“I’m so sorry. There’s been a bit of a cock up with the rooms. Computer error, I think. I’m afraid there aren’t any more single rooms available.”

“What? But I’ve got special circumstances!”

John breathed deep, trying not to panic. Harry kept telling him that sixteen was too young for university, but he had been determined to prove her and everyone else wrong. He could do this. Just because he was sixteen didn’t mean he was completely clueless in how to navigate the adult world. He looked at the senior warden (Mike, his name tag said) sitting at a laptop with a hapless expression on his face.

“There must be something you can do. I’m sixteen. The only way my parents even agreed to letting me start uni now was if I had my own room.”

Mike grimaced. “I do apologize. But senior students get first pick.” He fiddled with the mouse for a moment before breaking into a grin. “Sixteen. Oh! There’s another one.”

“Another one what?”

“Another young one. He’s fifteen. Would you mind rooming with someone your age?”

Hmm. Not exactly what he’d promised his massively overprotective parents, but really, he didn’t see the big deal anyway. Wouldn’t it be better to have a roommate? Someone to help him socialize and adjust and all that crap. And someone his age was even better, because he’d be going through the same difficulties as John. Even if John’s parents weren’t keen on him rooming with anyone, he could just accidentally fail to tell them until it was well into the term. John thanked the heavens that a last-minute emergency at his parents’ surgery meant his parents couldn’t drop him off at uni like they’d originally planned.

Decided, John nodded. “That would work.”

“Great!” Mike looked like he had just heard that the Allies had won the second world war. A tad bit of an overreaction, John thought. It wasn’t like he was planning to sue or anything. “It’s just for this term. We’ll get things sorted, and you’ll be able to get rid—um, move in January.”

John raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question the man’s change of words. It was probably just the hectic day getting to the senior warden. “So?” John asked, prompting Mike.

“So?” Mike replied.

“Where do I go? Who’s my roommate?”

The man looked relieved. Okay, there was something hinky going on. But again, John pushed the thought aside. He just wanted to get his room assignment, unpack, and try to relax a little before classes began.

“Right! You’re in…” he trailed off as he updated some information on his laptop. “Baker Hall. I’m afraid that’s on the edge of campus. It’s actually an upperclassman hall, but we’re making exceptions because of the overcrowding in the fresher halls.” The senior warden hit a final key and a paper spat out of the printer next to him. He grabbed a paper map from a stack, highlighted Baker Hall, then proceeded to give instructions on student IDs, keys, and a myriad other things John would likely forget in ten minutes. “Good luck. I’ll probably see you in class.”

“Class?” John asked, dazed with all the information. Was all of uni going to be like this?

“Pre-med, yeah?”

John nodded.

“I’m a teacher’s assistant for a couple of general bio classes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re in one of them.”

“Oh,” came John’s smart reply. “Right. Umm, see you then.” He waved his stack of papers at the warden, then turned to go.

“And remember. It’s just for this term!” the man called. “Sorry again for the mix-up.”

John thought he nodded, but was too overwhelmed to check. It wasn’t until he reached the building’s exit that he even thought to look at the papers clutched in his tense hands.

Hall: Baker  
Suite: 213  
Room:         A                                                                     B  
Residents:   Gregory M. Lestrade, Philip J. Anderson           John H. Watson, W. Sherlock Holmes

What kind of name was Sherlock? And unless his first name was Wilmore, why did he choose to go by the strange moniker instead of his first? Sounded like a guy who preferred being the center of attention. Great. Maybe Lestrade and Anderson would be better.

As John mused on his new suitemates, he followed the map to Baker Hall. It was going to be a bit of a hike to get to classes each day, but John didn’t mind. Walks were always good for clearing the head.

He couldn’t believe how much his life was changing. Away at university, reading biology for a path into medicine, and having roommates. It was overwhelming, but it was also exciting. Life in his small home town had been dreadfully boring. Made worse by the fact that he’d been homeschooled until age fourteen, when his parents had finally been convinced that he could handle school with his peers. He was smaller than his classmates, both those his age and those in his class, where he was the youngest by two years. Other than the bog standard bullies, people liked him well enough and he had made a few friends, but he had still felt out of place. But that life was done. University was a new chance. A place where he could pursue his dreams and become the person he wanted to be.

By the time he reached Baker Hall, John had worked up a decent fantasy of how great his life would be at Prescott University. He’d have to head back to the student center to get his trunk and bags, but for now he wanted to get rid of the one piece of luggage he’d been wheeling around all morning, along with the pack resting comfortably on his back. And then he wanted to meet his roommate, praying that he’d be a decent sort.

John hiked up the two flights of stairs and followed the second floor hallway until he reached the door marked 213. He pushed open the door, took a deep breath, and entered the room. The common area was surprisingly quiet for a move-in day. A couch and two old but comfortable-looking chairs crowded around a coffee table straight ahead of him. Behind the sitting area was a refrigerator and cupboard, next to a door that looked like it led to a washroom and toilet. In front of this was a small dining table and four chairs. To the left of the common area was a door marked “A,” which meant his own room stood to the right.

John gripped his luggage tightly, then marched over to the half-open door. Pushing it the rest of the way open with a shoulder, John entered his new room. Boxes were piled haphazardly around the room, covering both twin beds, one of the desks, and a chair. Two large pieces of luggage lay in the middle of the floor, flung open, but still mostly filled. John’s own backpack, two suitcases, and trunk now seemed highly inadequate. Of course, Harry was bequeathing some of her own things such as bedding to John, now that she had moved in with her girlfriend. She would bring it over as soon as John let her know where he was residing.

John cleared his throat nervously, wondering where his roommate was. Hopefully he was not out getting even more boxes. At John’s cough, a head popped up from under the bed. “Oh, you’ve arrived. Good. Hand me the grey cable in that box over there.”

John pointed to himself, and got a nod that screamed “obviously” in reply. He studied the teen as he walked to the box being pointed at. The boy looked a little young for fifteen. He had a mop of dark, curly hair and a thin, pimply face. John couldn’t see much more than that, as the boy’s body was hidden by the bed he was currently under.

John handed the cable to the boy, getting a vague nod in reply. The boy (Sherlock, John supposed) ducked back underneath the bed. John took the opportunity to quickly remove the boxes from his bed, placing his own luggage on it instead.

After a few minutes of grumbling and shuffling, Sherlock scooted out from underneath the bedframe and stood up, dusting himself off. He was quite tall and skinny, and he was dressed nicer than John had ever seen a teen boy dress, wearing dress shoes, slacks, and a crisp, button-down shirt. John suddenly felt like a vagrant in his own tatty jeans and Chelsea FC hoodie (even though he’d just seen plenty of students wearing similar dress in the student center). But he steeled himself, trying to remember what his mother had taught him about introductions (and trying to forget Harry’s less than helpful tips for “not acting like a complete swot”).

He stuck out his hand. “Hello. You must be Sherlock. I’m—“

The boy held up a hand to silence John. “Hold.”

John stopped talking, hand still outstretched. He watched bemusedly as Sherlock lowered his own hand, narrowed his eyes, and studied John for a full minute. Then his face cleared, and he said imperiously, “Biology student, pre-med. Homeschooled. Aged fifteen. One older sibling. Brother. You just returned from a vacation to the beach. What does H stand for?”

John finally lowered his hand. “You got all of that in one minute? Brilliant!”

Sherlock smirked at being right. Oh God, John’s roommate was going to be the insufferable, know-it-all sort.

John shot back with his own smirk. “You’re not completely correct, though. John Watson, biology student, pre-med. Homeschooled _except_ for the final two years. Aged _sixteen_. One older sibling. _Sister_. Vacationed at Majorca. What H?”

“Your middle initial is H. What does it stand for?”

John grimaced. He’d never divulge that. Instead he diverted. “You saw the welcome packet from the bio department and that my luggage label said ‘Harry Watson,’ so I get how you knew I was a bio student with a sibling—Harry is short for Harriet, mind you—but how did you know I was homeschooled and that I just returned from the beach? And that Harry was older? How did you know my middle initial? Why didn’t you assume the H stood for Harry, and that the suitcase was mine?”

The boy grinned in delight. “Oh good. I won’t be saddled with a complete idiot. I was worried, given the massive number of idiots that populate this planet.”

John raised an eyebrow as he waited for answers.

“Observation. You were correct about the welcome packet and luggage label. I saw from the room assignment you’re holding that your name is John H. Watson. The luggage label has a Hill University address, though, so it’s not yours. Being a Watson, Harry had to be a relative, likely a brother or father. Between the sticker for Hill University and that the luggage is fairly new, I assumed brother. I did prove incorrect there. I deduced that you were homeschooled because of your age. Homeschooling with early graduation is far more likely than me finding another genius. Sixteen, really? You’re rather short for your age, aren’t you? Or maybe my family just runs tall. I will have to do some research on that…” Sherlock trailed off with a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment, he snapped back. “As to your jaunt to Majorca, that’s easy. You’re quite tan and your hair looks sunlightened.”

Intelligent and arrogant. Wonderful. John was really looking forward to being around that for a term. Still, there was something engaging about the other boy. Something that made John feel immediately comfortable around him. And the boy was brilliant.

Sherlock grinned, and John realized he’d uttered the adjective out loud. Again. Damn, like Sherlock needed his head to get any bigger.

“Well, now that we know all about me, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Don’t want to try your own deductions?”

John huffed out a chuckle. “No, thank you. I don’t think I’d get any further than overdressed genius studying….” John looked around at the books already stacked on Sherlock’s desk. “Forensics?”

“I haven’t interacted with enough normals to know whether that was smart, but I’m guessing any child could guess those things,” Sherlock replied pompously.

“Aaaaand now I’ve had enough. I’m going to unpack.” John turned to his bed, trying to keep his temper in check. Engaging did not preclude annoying. After a moment, he started moving Sherlock’s boxes out of his space. This did not bode well for a neat room.

“It’s chemistry, actually. Though I’m considering forensics as well.” Sherlock said softly, suddenly standing next to John. He held out his hands for the box. “Sorry. I got distracted while unpacking. I’ll move everything to my side.”

Without a word, but with a small smile, John handed him the box. They both unpacked in silence for the next few minutes.

“I don’t—I’m not… I haven’t much experience with people. My own parents are quite ordinary, but I’ve had tutors my whole life and an older brother who is even smarter than I am. My interactions with the wider world are limited to what I’ve read on the internet.”

By the time Sherlock had finished his quiet confession, John had stopped unpacking, turning to watch the other boy fidget with a violin. So the arrogance covered insecurity? Genius he might be, but Sherlock obviously knew nothing about humanity. John felt himself soften.

“You’ve got the brains, and I understand people. We could be a formidable team, don’t you think?”

Sherlock gave John a shy smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock meet their suitemates and discuss eating habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned before, I'm American and this has not been Britpicked. For all the boys' hometowns, I just randomly picked towns off the map, regardless of accent. If anyone can pinpoint the accents used on the show and wants to yell at me about it, feel free. I'm happy to change the locations. :-D 
> 
> Speaking of locations, Prescott is of course a made up uni. I couldn't even tell you where it's located. Maybe London. Maybe Manchester. Maybe the middle of nowhere... Do they have college towns in the UK, where the population drops to the low thousands when school is not in session? Now I'm curious....

“Why do we need to go talk to them?” Sherlock whined as John pushed him out through their bedroom door later that day. The room was as put to rights as it was likely to get with two teenaged boys in it, they had been orientated at the student center, Harry had come and gone, and it was time for tea.

“Because they’re our suitemates. We’re going to be sharing a common room with them. It’s only polite to introduce ourselves.”

“We could just act like they’re not even here…”

“Sherlock!”

“Fine.” The boy sounded like he’d been asked to perform the twelve tasks of Hercules.

John just rolled his eyes, marched over to room A, and knocked. He’d heard people enter the suite earlier, and he thought he still heard voices from the room.

A boy several years older than John poked his head out of the room. “Yeah?”

“Hi, I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We’re your suitemates.”

“You sure? You like you’re not even out of grammar school yet.”

“Anderson, don’t be an arse,” came a voice from inside the room.

Anderson jolted forward as if he’d been playfully shoved. He opened further the door and stepped into the common room, a second young man close behind. The second man’s eyes widened as he looked at John and Sherlock, probably also surprised at their young faces.

“Tea?” he asked, holding up a box of it along with his kettle.

“We have biscuits,” came Sherlock’s bored voice.

Anderson’s eyes lit up. “Hell, I don’t care if you’re five years old, if you’re promising me food.”

“Anderson!” The other boy gave Anderson an elbow jab. “Ignore this lug. I’m Greg Lestrade.” He put out his hand, which John gladly shook. “You’re Watson and he’s Holmes, huh?” he asked.

“Yup,” replied John as he walked to the sink to fill the kettle before plugging it in.

“Freshers?”

John smiled wryly. “How’d you guess?”

“You do both look a little young for uni.”

“Genius. Homeschooled,” John replied, waving first to Sherlock, then at himself.

Lestrade nodded in understanding.

Speaking of the genius, Sherlock was being awfully quiet. John turned to see the boy flung out on the couch, eyes closed.

“Sherlock. Why don’t you join the conversation?”

“Dull.”

John marched over to the couch and grabbed the tin of biscuits from where they balanced on Sherlock’s stomach. “Then do your deduction thing. That’ll give the water time to boil.”

Sherlock opened an eye and managed to glare with it. “You underestimate me.”

John stood to the side, hand flung in the direction of their bemused suitemates. Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh, but John noticed a hint of a smile as the boy stood up dramatically.

He stared at Lestrade and Anderson for a while. “Lestrade plays rugby, has a long-term girlfriend, and is reading criminal justice. Anderson has a football scholarship and is studying forensics. Both are in their last year of university. Anderson hails from Blackpool. Lestrade from Chiswick.”

“Hey, you didn’t tell me where I was from,” John protested as the kettle beeped.

Sherlock smirked at the kettle’s timing before focusing on John. “Worcester, obviously.”

“Kempsey, specifically. Good guess.” John poured boiling water into the four mugs he’d found in a box on the coffee table and set the tea to steeping.

“It’s observation, John. Not guessing.” Sherlock sounded put upon.

John turned to see both Lestrade and Anderson gaping at Sherlock.

John smiled and looked at Sherlock. “Well, don’t keep them in suspense.”

John went on a hunt for serviettes or plates for the biscuits while half listening to Sherlock imperiously explain his deductions. John could see evidence of the sports and classes Sherlock had mentioned scattered around the room, but he didn’t know how Sherlock knew which went with which suitemate. He shrugged and continued his search for something civilized to put the biscuits on. A few moments later, he crowed in triumph as he uncovered a roll of paper towels.

The three other students looked at him.

“For the biscuits,” John explained. “Tea should be ready by now.”

“You aren’t even listening to me!” Sherlock pouted.

John rolled his eyes. “I already told you that you were brilliant. Nothing has changed in the last hour.” He handed his roommate a mug, either the tea or the compliment earning John a smile in return.

The four students chatted as they had tea. John learned that the other two were indeed in their last year at Prescott. They weren’t exactly friends, having gone lottery for roommates, but they knew each other through a few shared classes. Anderson seemed like a bit of an ass, and he and Sherlock clearly did not like each other, but Lestrade seemed decent enough—personable and intelligent. Both had heavy class loads this term, with Lestrade informing John and Sherlock that they likely wouldn’t be around much.

The four broke up after tea, each wanting to do some errands before the campus shut down for the evening. John came back from the bookstore loaded down with books and a new hoodie, hoping to grab Sherlock for supper in Baker’s dining hall.

“I’m fine, Mycroft. I’m not a child. I know how to handle myself,” came Sherlock’s frustrated tone from their room. “You’re as bad as Mummy.” A moment of silence. “That’s enough! I spent most of my life thinking I was an idiot, but I know now that that was untrue. So trust me to know what I’m doing.” A bump on the floor.

John opened the door to find Sherlock lying in the middle of the floor, arms flung out and phone dropped beside him.

“Alright, Sherlock?” John asked, dropping his new books on his wrinkled bedspread. Sherlock must have sat or lain on it earlier. John was not surprised by this. The boy didn’t seem capable of sitting like a normal person. He was always dramatically flinging himself down on whatever piece of furniture (or floor) that was closest.

“Family is evil.”

Ahh, Mycroft was probably the older brother, given the strange name.

“Oh? Sibling troubles?”

“He treats me like a child. I may not be as intelligent as he is, but I’m still a genius. I can navigate university life.”

John huffed.

“What?!?” Sherlock looked at John accusingly.

“Genius does not mean you can figure people out, as we discussed before.”

Sherlock sniffed. “That’s what I have you for.”

“So happy to be of service, master,” John replied dryly.

Sherlock looked confused. John ignored the look, returning to the subject of Mycroft. “Older siblings are generally bossy and overprotective. He just wants you to be happy and safe.”

“That may be true for Harry, but Mycroft is no ordinary older brother.” No surprise there. “He wants to control me. And he’ll use any means necessary to do so. Don’t be surprised if he corners you, trying to get information on me.”

“Two Holmes brothers dominating my life. Lovely.”

“I assure you. Mycroft is not lovely. He’s terrible.” Sherlock covered his eyes with an arm, sighing loudly.

“Sarcasm, Sherlock,” John replied, hauling books over to his desk.

“Really? How do you tell?”

“My flat voice and blank face. Those two do not usually go with the word ‘lovely’ when the sentiment is heartfelt.”

“Oh.”

John looked up from where he was stacking books to see Sherlock looking at him seriously.

“I will endeavor to keep that in mind.”

John chuckled. “You do that. Hey, you hungry? I thought we’d head to the dining hall for supper soon.”

“We just had tea! Why do we need to eat again?”

“Three hours ago. Now it’s time for supper.”

“How many times a day do you eat?”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“Breakfast, lunch, a snack at tea time, and supper.”

“Really? That consistently?”

John looked at his roommate, flabbergasted. “Yes. How often do you eat?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t keep track. Whenever I’m hungry, I supposed. Once a day, at least?”

“No wonder you’re thin as a rail. Well that’s going to change. Not eating is extremely unhealthy.”

That earned John another shrug. “I’m not hungry now.”

John rolled his eyes. “Come sit with me while I eat at least? I don’t want to sit by myself.”

Sherlock seemed stymied by this, but acquiesced.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock finds the chemistry labs, the boys discuss tea, and John meets the archenemy.

It took a few weeks, but soon the boys managed to settle into university life. Or, at least, John settled into a routine, and Sherlock continued marching to his own drum, which occasionally crossed paths with plebeian things like classes, food, and sleep. John, not wanting to mother his roommate, let him go his own way except when it came to food. John would drag Sherlock along to the dining hall most evenings. He found that if he piled his own plate high enough, he could sneakily persuade his roommate to take at least a few bites while he was distracted with talking.

And, damn, could Sherlock talk. When he wasn’t pouting from boredom, he happily nattered on about whatever subject currently held his attention. Apparently he was a big fan of science experiments, and could be found surrounded by piles of shoes as he compared treads or measuring the heights of everyone who came through Baker’s front door. John put his foot down when it came to smells, though. The second time he walked into their room to find it smelling like a perfumery (“I’m memorizing the smells!” Sherlock had argued), he banned all smelly experiments from the suite.

“Lights flashing in the middle of the night don’t bother me. Even small explosions are fine since I already sleep with earplugs to combat your midnight violin sessions. But I cannot tolerate smells,” John had explained, opening the windows to clear the air.

Sherlock had pouted as he put the myriad perfume bottles back in a box, but apparently had acquiesced to John’s demands, because he became more scarce after that. John wasn’t too concerned at first, knowing his roommate’s lack of understanding for schedules.

When Sherlock disappeared for three days, though, John let himself worry. He asked his suitemates and anyone he saw in the residence hall, with no luck. He finally found the genius when he wasn’t even actively looking for him. John was talking with a girl named Molly, who shared several of his classes, after class that afternoon when he complained about his absent roommate.

“I mean, Sherlock is allowed to do his own thing, of course, but a little notice from time-to-time would be nice. Just a text saying he’s busy. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Sherlock? Isn’t that the tall, skinny kid with more fashion sense than sense sense? He’s your roommate?” Molly asked.

John sighed. “Yeah, that would be Sherlock.”

“He was in my chemistry lab this morning. Well, not for the class. He was just using the equipment and ignoring everyone. I think he’s in my calculus class, though I haven’t seen him since the first day…”

“Again, yes, that would be Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes. “He works on his own schedule.”

Molly nodded, bemused. “He might still be in the lab. He was still there when we left. I don’t think he even knew we were there,” Molly noted with a bit of awe.

“Likely,” John replied. “Thanks for the tip. Which room?”

“103. Do you need any help….?” Molly seemed rather eager. John couldn’t tell if she was just helpful or perhaps a little taken with Sherlock.

“Nah. Best if I go alone. He’s easier to corral when there’s less people to impress.” John smiled to show he appreciated the thought, then turned to walk back to the other end of the building, but stopped before walking away. “Thanks again, Molly. Do you want to join me for supper this evening?”

Molly gave him a bit of a deer in the headlights look. “Oh! Umm, I appreciate the attention, but…”

“Oh! No, not like that.” John flushed in embarrassment. “I just meant as friends. I haven’t had time to meet many people yet, but you seem pretty cool. Plus, we’re both pre-med, so I’m sure we’ll be in a lot of the same classes during our time at Prescott. It’d be nice to have a study buddy that I actually like hanging out with.”

Molly’s face morphed from terrified surprise to friendly delight. “Aww, that is so sweet. And smart. I would love to have dinner with you, Friend John Watson.”

“Wonderful, Friend Molly Hooper. Is half-six in front of Baker Hall okay?”

“Lovely.”

They exchanged mobile numbers, then went their separate ways. A few minutes later, John entered room 103 and was not surprised to see a skinny frame hunched over a microscope in the back corner of the lab. John walked over to the corner and stood in front of the lab bench where Sherlock was working.

Despite the no food in the labs rule, the area was littered with take-away cups filled with various levels of cold coffee. Sherlock himself was more disheveled than John had seen him thus far, with half of his shirt untucked, his hair a crazy mess, and bags under his eyes. He was simultaneously looking through a microscope lens and writing on a notebook sitting to the side of the instrument.

John wondered how long it would be before Sherlock realized he wasn’t alone. He guessed several hours. Not willing to wait that long, he said Sherlock’s name. After the third time at an increasing volume, he put his hand between Sherlock’s face and the microscope. Sherlock jerked upright and looked up wildly.

“Rude!” Sherlock glared at John.

“So is ignoring your phone for three days. And not visiting the room for three days. Or in any way acknowledging your roommate for three days.”

“Three days? I just talked to you yesterday.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. We watched that ridiculous movie about those fast cars. Completely and utterly fantastical, I might add.”

“We watched _Fast and Furious_ three days ago. And it was ridiculous, sure. But that’s kind of the point. It was fun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Regardless, that was yesterday.”

“Nope. It was Sunday night. It’s now Wednesday afternoon.”

“Is it really?” Sherlock pulled out his phone, which apparently had gone dead. John pulled his own mobile out and showed Sherlock the screen.

“Huh,” was Sherlock’s reply. “I guess I got caught up in my work.”

“You think? Molly Hooper said you never noticed when her whole class came in and did a chemistry lab this morning.”

“Who?”

“One of my pre-med mates.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to make sure that you were still alive. Maybe let me know when you head to the labs next time so I know where to look for the body.”

“Body?” Sherlock looked quizzically at John, who was collecting the many coffee cups on the bench.

“I’m guessing you haven’t consumed anything but coffee for three days. At this point, you really should have had a heart attack from caffeine overload or passed out from hypoglycemia. I didn’t know you even liked coffee. I’ve only ever seen you drink tea.”

“You’ve seen me drink _your_ tea,” corrected Sherlock as he went back to peering into the microscope. “I don’t actually like tea.”

John let out an annoyed huff. “You could’ve told me. I won’t force you to drink it.”

“No, you misapprehend me, as always,” Sherlock grumbled. “I am not fond of tea in general. But I enjoy it when you make it.”

“Oh.” John felt a warmth in his chest at the other boy’s words. “That’s nice.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sherlock agreed with a distracted air.

John rolled his eyes as he binned the coffee cups. “I’d like things to continue being nice. So in the interest of keeping you alive, you have two choices. You can join me and Molly for supper at 6:30, or I can bring you a power bar…er, _several_ power bars, rather.”

Sherlock grimaced, as if both options were reprehensible. “I’m not done with the testing, though.”

“So, power bar?”

Loud sigh. “What time is it now?”

“Half-four.”

“I suppose I can finish up by dinner.”

“Really?” John had expected the power bar to win, no contest. He continued before his roommate could change his mind. “Right. I’m going to Reinholdt to study for a while. I’ll pick you up at 6:15.”

Sherlock waved vaguely as he hastily scribbled in his notebook.

John took the wave as dismissal and headed out the door. He was walking down the steps outside the science building when he was approached by a young man who looked vaguely familiar. He was taller than John (not a difficult feat) and had a long nose and thin, light brown hair. He was in shape, but had the appearance of someone who had struggled with his weight during puberty. He wore the same imperious smirk that John was becoming rather familiar with through Sherlock.

“John H. Watson.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“That’s me,” John answered all the same, crossing his arms suspiciously.

“How would you like to earn a little extra cash this term?”

Alarm bells started ringing in John’s brain. Was he being propositioned for sex? Or asked to be a drug mule? Did they want him to steal tests? “Uuummm, no thanks,” he said quickly, trying to push past the guy.

“Easy money. All you’ll have to do is observe and report. I realize you normals aren’t the best at observing, but putting a camera in your room would be more effort than it’s worth. I hate doing legwork as it is. Adding hours of surveillance footage is not on my Christmas list.”

Of course. That’s why he looked vaguely familiar and wore Sherlock’s own smirk.

“Mycroft! I’m not going to spy on your brother for you.”

“Why not? You already look after him, and you share a room with him. All you would need to do is send regular texts informing me of his habits. I would make it more than worth the slight extra time you’d spend on the effort.”

“Sherlock warned me you’d do this. And no, I’m not taking money to spy on my friend.” It was the first time John had said the word aloud in relation to Sherlock, but he realized it was true. In the short time they’d lived together, they had become friends. It was a weird, probably unhealthy friendship, but John was quickly coming to care for the strange genius he shared a room with (of course, that didn’t preclude him from being annoyed to hell and back over Sherlock’s less than adorable…quirks).

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the word, obviously as surprised as John was at its use.

“Look, if Sherlock is endangering himself or others, I’ll obviously get in touch, but I’m not going to sell him out over what he ate for breakfast.”

“Sherlock doesn’t eat breakfast.”

“And you think you need me why? Also, he drinks tea in the morning, so that might count.”

“Tea?”

“He likes it when I make him tea.”

Mycroft stared at John in an imperious way that only the queen herself could come close to pulling off. “You and I are rather alike, John Watson.”

“Oh we are, are we? Because we’re both spymasters or because we’re both controlling? Oh, I’ve got it, it’s our giant brains.”

“We both want what’s best for Sherlock, despite what he may think is right for himself.”

“You’re kidding, right? I don’t hold his reins, Mycroft. He’s capable of making his own decisions. Sure, I try to shove a little food into him from time to time, but I don’t tell him what to do. Did you know he’s been in the chemistry lab for three days?” John asked, pointing at the building behind him. “I just found this out _today_. By accident, mind you, because a classmate mentioned in. Was I worried? Of course I was. But that doesn’t give me the right to do more than gently suggest he keep others in mind. I can only advise the slightest of changes in his habits, though, because to ask more of him than that would mean changing who he is at a fundamental level, and I could _never_ ask that of him. He’s only able to be who he is because he’s so different from us ‘normals,’ as you call us. Everyone else already hinders him by their very obvious derision and disbelief in his abilities. I’m not going to be one of those people, and you shouldn’t be either.” Rant finished, John remembered to breathe. He wasn’t sure where that had come from, but he meant every word of it.

Throughout John’s speech, Mycroft stayed silent, but his mouth transformed from straight slit to sly smile. “You’ll do just fine, John Watson. We’ll be in touch.” With that, Mycroft spun on his heel and headed down the path.

“But I’m not going to spy for you!” John protested to the elder Holmes’s back.

Mycroft merely waved, then bent his head over what was probably his mobile.

John’s own phone dinged a moment later, confirming the assumption.

                _I’m pleased my brother’s roommate is not as dull as most people are. Keep him safe. – MH_

What was it with the Holmes brothers signing their texts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys get their first case (uh, sort of) and talk about friendship.

With Mycroft taken care of for the time being (“How _is_ Mycroft doing? Gaining weight, I hope,” had been Sherlock’s question to John that evening at the dining hall.), John put his focus back on classes and Sherlock put his focus on…whatever could keep his brain occupied. He regularly lamented the boringness of university life (“I knew I should have talked Mummy and Father into letting me attend two years ago.”) and the people associated with it, but now that he was regularly occupied in the chemistry labs, at least John knew where to take food and tea. Molly helped when she could, slipping power bars to him during her own lab hours, though John often found those shoved to the side and ignored until John could cajole Sherlock to take a bit or two.

“Why don’t you just go to class? It may be boring, but you could use the time to study human beings or something,” suggested John one day when he found Sherlock curled up on the couch about a month into the term.

“Dull,” Sherlock replied with a lackluster tone.

“You picked the classes, so it’s your own fault.”

“I’m required to get certain prerequisites out of the way before I can take the interesting ones,” Sherlock whinged to the back of the couch that he was still curled up against.

“Why didn’t you test out of them? I got out of calculus and history that way.”

Sherlock flopped over, staring at John. “Test out?”

“Yes, you go take a test, and if you pass, you get the credits without having to take the class. I doubt it works for higher level courses, but you can definitely get a lot of pre-reqs out of the way.” He frowned at Sherlock. “Surely you knew about that. My advisor discussed it with me when she saw my entrance exam scores.”

“Advisor?”

“Seriously, Sherlock? How are you a genius? Your advisor is the professor that you have regular meetings with to make sure you’re on the correct path. They suggest courses, help you focus your degree, sign you up for classes…”

Sherlock’s look was one of complete bafflement.

“Ringing any bells?” John prompted.

“I supposed I did meet with a professor before the term began, but she was dreadfully dull, so I didn’t really listen to her.”

John mentally facepalmed. “You have _got_ to work on that, Sherlock. I know most of the world isn’t as smart as you, but that doesn’t mean you can dismiss every person you meet. They can be helpful on occasion.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow of doubt.

With that, John sat Sherlock in front of his laptop and forced him to write emails to his advisor—after digging through desk drawers for ten minutes to figure out who Sherlock’s advisor was—and professors to see if he could test out of any classes.

Which was how they found themselves walking down the halls of the language building a week later, John not trusting Sherlock to actually make it to his test on his own (he was not mothering; John just wanted Sherlock to stop complaining about boring classes).

As they neared one of the classrooms, they heard a stern voice drifting from the open door.

“I know that someone in this class stole the test answers. No one is leaving this room until I find out who it was.” Groans from the students followed the pronouncement.

John rolled his eyes. That wasn’t going to work, was it? No matter, not his problem. Although his own problem had stopped walking, instead staring into the room with a curious look on his face.

John knew that look. “Sheeeerrrloooock. No.”

“But I can help.”

“You have a test—“

Sherlock waved a hand at John. “In a minute, John. This won’t take but a few moments.” Uh oh. There was the gleam in his eyes. It was simultaneously one of excitement and one of arrogance, with a little stubbornness thrown in for good measure.

John heaved a put-upon sigh and followed his friend into the classroom.

The professor was still ranting, but all eyes swiveled to the door as Sherlock strode through.

“Excuse me?” questioned the professor, hands on his hips as Sherlock stared at the students. John could see the boy’s eyes darting around the room, taking in every hint that he could. He didn’t doubt that Sherlock could figure it out, but they did have a test to get to. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to remove Sherlock until he’d solved the problem, John set about trying to persuade the professor.

“I’m sorry, sir. My friend and I overheard that you had test answers stolen—“

“I can help,” Sherlock cut in, eyes still taking in the room. He held out his hand to the professor. “Do you have a list of the test scores?”

“Excuse me?” the man repeated.

Sherlock sighed. “Quickly now, I have an appointment to get to.”

“Sherlock. This might be easier if you did your party trick first,” John suggested.

“John. Did you not just remark that we are limited on time? If I can see the test scores, I can clear the matter in less than a minute.”

“Yes, but we’ll waste more time explaining your methods. Just do your thing on the good professor here to show him your skills.”

Sherlock huffed, but obliged John by turning to the professor. He scanned the man for a moment. “You are a new father, I’d say less than six months. You own a schnauzer and a mo-ped. You’re cheating on your wife.”

“Excuse me?” the man demanded a third time, but this time there was panic in his eyes. Their audience was stunned into silence.

John grimaced. “A little bit not good on that last one,” he whispered to Sherlock.

Sherlock cocked his head at John. “But it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean you should tell a roomful of students about their professor’s indiscretions,” John replied, trying to keep his voice low.

“He made the choice. I just pointed it out.”

“Yes, but—“

“Here.” The professor thrust a piece of paper between the two boys. “Please don’t tell my wife,” he pleaded, terror making his eyes wide.

“Oh my god, you think we’re threatening…?” John began.

Sherlock studied the paper. “Tell me the names of the boy in the back row with the red hoodie, the girl in the middle with the glasses, and the entire second row.”

The professor pointed to the suspects’ names on the list without a word. Sherlock’s eyes darted between the page and the classroom for a few moments before clearing his throat.

“These three stole the tests,” he said, pointing to glasses, hoodie, and a kid in the second row.

“What?!?” Glasses stood up. “I’m one of the top students. I had no reason to steal test answers.”

“Except that your grades are dipping because you’ve been spending too much time with your boyfriend, someone your parents don’t approve of,” Sherlock shot back. “Come along, John. I have a test to take.” Sherlock strode back out of the room.

John shrugged at the professor. “I hope that was helpful,” he called, following his friend from the room. “I promise we won’t tell anyone about your, umm, yeah.”

“Thank you?” The man looked like he didn’t know whether to be grateful, puzzled, or angry. John knew how he felt, at least in a vague sense. Sherlock never called up less than three warring emotions in any person he came into contact with. Maybe he should come up with leaflets to hand out: “How to Survive an Encounter with Sherlock Holmes.” He had a feeling explaining Sherlock to puzzled people was going to become part of his daily life.

John looked in front of him just in time to avoid slamming into a stalled Sherlock in the hallway.

“Sherlock?”

“They listened to me, John. They never—I never…” John didn’t think he’d ever seen a stunned look on Sherlock’s face. It was a bit disconcerting.

“Of course they listened to you. You’re brilliant.

Sherlock gave John a small smile before schooling his features into his usual arrogant smirk. “Of course I am, but for some reason few people besides yourself seem capable of grasping that concept.”

“Weeeellll, you do come on a little strong, mate. Barging into the middle of a rant and then spilling a professor’s secrets won’t exactly endear you to others.”

“So why did they listen to me this time? I did those things, but they still listened.” Sherlock looked at John with surprise. “You’re the only factor that has changed. They listened to me because of you? But you’re not smart.”

“Sheeeerrrloooock.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. You’re not as smart as I am. I suppose you are less idiotic than most people I’ve met.”

John rolled his eyes. King of the backhanded compliments, ladies and gentlemen.

“Oh, it’s that people thing, isn’t it? You’re good with people. So you convinced the professor to listen to me?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far. I was just able to stall him long enough for you to let your genius get past the arrogance and acerbity.”

“Ah,” Sherlock looked like he didn’t quite understand the idea, but he nodded anyway. He then cocked his head at John, as if his brain had moved on to another thought (or eight). “You used the word ‘friend’ earlier. Did you mean it? Or was that a stalling tactic?”

John’s head jerked back slightly in surprise—partly because he didn’t think Sherlock ever _really_ listened to what he said, and partly for the abrupt course change. “When?”

“Do keep up, John. When we first entered the classroom. You said ‘My friend and I overheard that you had test answers stolen.’”

“Oh, right. Of course I meant it. Why would I say it, otherwise?”

“Like I said, stalling technique.”

“Uhh, weird. Okay. No, it was not a stalling technique. You and I are friends, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Why are any two people friends? They share common interests. They find things to laugh about together. They care about each other.”

“We have no common interests.”

“We’re both younger than most university students. We both had isolated childhoods. We both have one older sibling. We’re both at Prescott. We share a room.”

“And these things can be a basis of friendship? Seems tenuous.” Sherlock’s face was full of disbelief.

John shrugged. “I admit that some friends have more in common than we do, but plenty of friendships begin by similar circumstances. The way I see it, you have three choices with a roommate. You can hate them, ignore them, or befriend them. Despite your violin screeching at all hours and the odd surprises you leave in the refrigerator, I don’t hate you. And despite the fact that you think I’m an idiot, you obviously don’t hate me, either. We spend a lot of our free time together, so ignoring is obviously out. So, friendship seems like our only option.”

“I thought you only tolerated me. That you were too nice to ask for a new roommate.”

“I wouldn’t keep feeding you and watching movies with you and escorting you to tests if I merely tolerated you, Sherlock. I care what happens to you. Which is what a friend does. I’m not asking you to reciprocate that. Just accept it.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Spare me the ‘I’m above emotional entanglements’ speech―“

“I think I’m fine with just having a single friend.”

John opened his mouth to continue his rant, then Sherlock’s words sank in. “Really?”

Sherlock gave John his small smile again, the one completely free of arrogance. “Really. Speaking of. I believe I’m late for my test. And as you’re the one who was supposed to help me arrive on time, I’m blaming you.” And the smirk was back.

“Arse.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time moves on, John searches for his sanity, and Lestrade asks for help.

Once Sherlock tested out of out of all of his current classes, plus several other required classes, he was allowed to enter a few upper-level classes. With Sherlock finally occupied with courses that seemed to interest him, John was able to relax a little and work on his own studies. Before he knew it, the term had ended and he was heading home for winter break.

And, of course, as soon as he was home, he wished he was back on campus again. Between his overprotective parents and the utter dullness that was Kempsey, he was ready for the break to be over the day after he arrived. He spent his hours vegging on the couch, watching movies and bad television (why was there never anything good on during the hols?). He met up with his few school mates, but even after just a term away, John found they didn’t have much in common anymore beyond an interest in sports. He was starting to see why Sherlock called everyone dull.

Harry came home a few days before Christmas, although that wasn’t as pleasant as John had hoped it would be. He’d only seen his sister once during the term, despite the fact that she lived only two hours away, and he’d been looking forward to spending some time with her. Their parents hadn’t exactly been happy when she’d come out to them a few weeks into her freshman year at uni, and she’d been distant ever since. John had hoped his own university experience would bring them closer again, but that wasn’t to be. Harry spend most of her free time in her room talking with her girlfriend or out at the pub with mates. John worried when he saw her come home completely wasted four nights in a row—a pattern that was only broken by being forced to stay home with the family Christmas day—but didn’t feel like he could say anything to her.

So it was with relief that John returned to campus a couple of days after the new year, happy to endure Sherlock’s quirks rather than deal with the tense home situation. He had completely forgotten that the senior warden had promised to move him to a new room, and at that point didn’t care to move. The term began much like the last had done, with a confused flurry that settled into routine after a couple of weeks. John went to class, did homework, watched movies with Sherlock, played rugby, and hung out with his mates. Lestrade and Anderson were around a bit more, which meant more disparaging comments from Sherlock to Anderson and yelling from Anderson in return. John and Lestrade watched without comment and with amusement.

John was just relieved that Sherlock had more to occupy his time now. He was in all upper-level classes (including two with Anderson, which did nothing to smooth things over between him and Sherlock), so he actually attended class on occasion, and had his experiments to keep him occupied when he decided class wasn’t worth his time.

Sherlock was also gaining a bit of a reputation around campus for being able to solve problems. It started with helping Lestrade with some criminology homework (or, well, arrogantly explaining an answer when Lestrade was discussing it with John in the common room). Then he heard through Molly of some stolen equipment in the bio labs, a puzzle he solved in about two hours. He cleared another student’s name who had been accused of cheating, and implicated the actual offender.

Knowledge of his arrogance and inability to work with people also got around, but plenty of people were willing to ignore it as long as John was around. Which was why John started being approached quite regularly by other students and some professors when they had puzzles to solve. Most didn’t want to go to Sherlock himself, knowing he would flat out refuse to help with the “boring” cases. Still, they had plenty of people who would follow John back to their dorm room, hoping to convince Sherlock to help them. John finally had to institute client hours to keep people from showing up in the middle of the night.

Sherlock complained about how dull everyone (and their cases) was, but he still solved the problems. Sometimes without even having to leave the room. They did get a few cases that actually interested Sherlock, usually the type where they ended up chasing someone across campus. They even (somewhat accidentally) busted a drug ring.

When the term ended, both boys decided to take summer classes and so stayed on campus. They even got to keep their dorm. Lestrade and Anderson graduated and moved out, both getting jobs at New Scotland Yard. With a smaller student presence on campus, the other room stayed empty for the summer, with John and Sherlock continuing to share a room, since they’d have new suitemates moving in for the autumn term (well, John found himself trudging over to the empty room with a blanket and pillow a few times to avoid Sherlock’s manic violin moods, but the room technically stayed empty).

Molly also stayed for the summer, so she was often found hanging out in their rooms or in the labs with Sherlock. She and John got along well, and often studied for class together, but Sherlock was her main reason for being around. John worried about her as he saw her crush grow. She was an extremely bright young woman, but she had a blind spot for Sherlock. At first, John assumed that she just was able to look past Sherlock’s acerbity and arrogance and see the good man that he could become, much as John did. But where at least John’s feelings of friendship were returned by Sherlock, Molly’s own feelings went unrequited. Sherlock seemed to appreciate her help on certain cases (she was much more observant than John was), and he respected her abilities, but he saw her as nothing more than another resource. Someone who could occasionally see something he didn’t. The boy didn’t seem interested in her even as a friend. Molly, however, was unhindered, continuing to cast doe eyes at Sherlock every time he was in the room or did something extra brilliant. John at first tried to warn Molly, but she was stubborn, and so John let her be.

With the summer term, John gained some free time and managed to land his own girlfriend. And then another and another. He wasn’t interested in anything long-term, as he knew his schedule would fill back up in the autumn term, but it was nice to get away from school and cases and arrogant, pouty faux-detectives and just hang out with a girl. He was seventeen now, and could go to the pubs to find girls his age who weren’t still in sixth form and thus might have something in common with him. None were particularly exciting, but they were sweet and sometimes funny, and he at least could work off some excess hormones and energy with them.

Sherlock found this confusing at first, then amusing, then dull. As long as John was around to act as interpreter, make tea, and remind him to eat, Sherlock left John alone. At least at first. After his third or fourth girlfriend, Sherlock started being a bit possessive of John’s time, and so it was with relief that entertainment for Sherlock came in the form of Greg Lestrade.

John hadn’t expected to hear from his old suitemate after graduation. He was a nice enough fellow, but he was five years older than John and he had a real job now, so they didn’t have much in common. However, he was surprised to see Lestrade’s name on his caller ID one day toward the end of July.

“Hey, mate. How’s the Yard treating you?”

“Hey, Watson. I’m doing alright, I suppose. I’m low on the totem pole, so the job’s pretty boring, but my supervisor thinks I have a good chance at working my way up, so I’m keeping at it.”

John nodded. If Greg Lestrade was one thing, he was a hard worker. He’d never even get close to Sherlock-levels of deduction, but he was smart and stubborn, and John knew he’d make a good detective someday.

“That’s good to hear.”

“And you? You two stayed on campus for summer term, right? How are classes?”

“They’re alright. Can’t take anything too interesting until I get the rest of my pre-reqs out of the way, but I’d rather do them now. Plus, Sherlock keeps life from being too boring, of course.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I do not envy you. Though…” Lestrade petered off for a moment. “Actually, I’m calling because I’m hoping he can help with something.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. It’s just, my supervisor’s been stuck on a case for weeks now. It’s driving him batty, so he’s driving me batty. I can’t make heads or tails of it either, but it seems weird enough for Sherlock to take it. Think you can convince him?”

John gaped. “You want to bring Sherlock on as a consultant for Scotland Yard?”

“Well, not officially. Officially, even I’m not on the case. I’m just the drudge getting coffee and filling out paperwork. But I can maybe tell him the details off the record. No access to the crime scene or photos or anything. It’s bare bones, I know, but I really want this case over and done with.”

“Oh, okay….” John thought on it. He wasn’t happy about it all being not quite legal, but Lestrade—a man with a pretty strong moral compass—was the one who had contacted him. If he thought it was okay, then it must not be too bad. And Sherlock could definitely use the distraction. His summer classes were boring him, and they hadn’t had nearly as many cases recently as they had when the campus had been full of students and teachers. He had taken to either playing his violin while lying spread out on the couch or bouncing a tennis ball against the wall above his bed.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to Sherlock. You want to come over to discuss it this evening? Or we can meet you somewhere.” John had a date that evening, but he could reschedule.

“I can come over. It’ll be nice to see the old res hall again.”

“Great. Text when you’re on your way.”

“Will do. I can’t pay you guys, but I’ll bring over take way this evening, and we’ll go out once the case is solved.”

“Works for me. See you in a couple of hours.”

John ended the call. He had been on the way back to Baker from the library (the bouncing tennis ball had gotten to him about an hour into his studying) when Lestrade had called, so he continued the walk back, wondering if Sherlock had even moved in the last three hours.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had migrated from the bedroom to the common area, though he still hadn’t bothered to dress. He was instead cocooned in a sheet and curled up on the couch, facing away from the room. John knew he wasn’t sleeping, though, because he heard him muttering under his breath.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock. Put on some pants and a dressing gown. Greg’s coming over this evening.”

“Who?” Sherlock questioned, not bothering to face John.

“Greg Lestrade. Our old suitemate?” Sometimes Sherlock’s inability to pay attention other people still occasionally astounded John, though he’d thought he’d finally become inured to it.

“Right. The less stupid one, right? Criminal justice?”

John rolled his eyes. “That’s the one. He wants your help on a case.”

“Boring.”

“You haven’t even heard the case yet.”

“The man leads an extremely dull life, John. Nothing could happen to him that could be considered interesting to me.”

“It’s not personal. It’s a Scotland Yard case.”

Sherlock whipped around, somehow managing to keep the sheet wrapped around him. “The police want my help?”

“Not exactly,” John hedged, dumping his books on the coffee table and sitting in the chair across from Sherlock. “He’s not officially on the case, and you won’t be either. He’s just hoping you could take a look at it from another angle, something that would give his boss the information he needed to figure it out.”

“Oh.” Sherlock slumped back down. “Dull.”

“Come on. Just hear the guy out. It’s not like you have anything else occupying your time.”

“I’m occupied!”

“You’re lying on a couch starkers. Muttering to yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not occupied. And I’m wearing a sheet, thank you very much.”

“Please, Sherlock. For me? I’m going crazy cooped up here in the room. I could stand to be occupied by something not school related.”

Sherlock pouted. “Go out with one of your girlfriends.”

“I only have one girlfriend. Sheila.”

“Sure, you _currently_ only have one. But they never last long enough for me to keep them straight. I’ve told you before that relationships are not worth the effort. And you seem to agree, considering how short-lived each one is.”

“How am I supposed to know if I’ll like them if I don’t date them?”

“You see but you don’t observe, John.”

“Oh, Lord, not this again,” John murmured. “Tea?”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, barely taking a breath before launching into his lecture. “If you just took a few minutes to really look at a person, you’d learn all you’d need to know. No dating required.”

John stopped Sherlock before he could go full tilt. “I’ve already told you. Even if I had your crazy mind powers, I’d still want to get to know someone the old fashioned way. I mean, sure you can probably tell if a person’s a cheater or an alcoholic or a…a chalk eater or whatever, but you can’t tell if they’re funny or have a good taste in movies without at least speaking with them. And that’s all dating is: talking with someone to find out their personality to see if theirs will complement yours. You have to test the connection.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh of disbelief. They’d had this argument several times, but neither was ready to back down. Which was of course why they were so different to begin with.

John shrugged and went back to preparing tea. “Speaking of dealing with people,” he began, hoping to distract Sherlock. “Why don’t you put on some clothes before Lestrade gets here?”

“Why?” Sherlock whined. “I’m wearing a sheet. Which Gavin—“

“Greg.”

“Greg has seen me in before.”

“Well he’s now technically a client, not a suitemate. He might appreciate it if you put some pants on.”

Sherlock sneered. “You are not a complete imbecile, John. Why do you insist on conforming to society’s standards?”

John raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if he could find his sanity there. Unfortunately, it had fled the room. “To make other people more comfortable, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care about other people.”

“Be that as it may, you know that dealing with people my way gets better results than doing it your way.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stood up and stalked to the bedroom. “But only because I’m cold!” He called over his shoulder.

John smirked. It had only taken a few clients storming out in anger, embarrassment, or horror for Sherlock to understand that while John may not be a traditional genius, he did know a good deal more about people than Sherlock ever would. As long as Sherlock took John’s people advice to heart, he didn’t care if Sherlock came up with his own silly reasons for doing as John asked.

They had finished tea and two episodes of _Blake’s 7_ by the time Lestrade made it over to Baker Hall. Although they hadn’t been close, John was surprised to find he had genuinely missed talking to his old suitemate. They spent a few minutes chatting while divvying up curry and rice, until Sherlock interrupted them.

“If you’re going to keep up this inane chatter, I’m leaving. I was told there would be a case,” he said coldly, ignoring the plate John handed him.

John rolled his eyes and sat the plate down in front of the other boy. “Don’t tell me you’re not at all interested in life at the Yard.”

“I’m interested in cases, not people, John.”

John looked at Lestrade apologetically, but Lestrade just smiled.

“I missed you, too, Holmes.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Actually, I kind of did. Yeah, not finding severed fingers and poison in the fridge has been nice. But at the same time, I sort of miss the spontaneity of it all. The flat’s really quiet with just me and Annie.”

“Annie?” questioned Sherlock.

“My girlfriend.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“The same one he had all of last year?” John cut in. “Blond hair, tall. Librarian?”

Sherlock’s face cleared. “The one sleeping with her boss. Right. I thought you would’ve dumped her for that, Lestrade.”

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, and John just buried his face in his hands.

It took most of that night, but Sherlock eventually figured out that one of the burglaries in the case didn’t fit with the rest. Once he threw it out, he quickly realized how the criminals had gained entrance to the houses they robbed, and that eventually led him to the likely suspects. Lestrade thanked him profusely, promising an update and dinner as soon as the case was closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys grow up and Sherlock asks a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the chapter where Sherlock's asexuality is so very briefly alluded to (ha! more like glossed over). If that's what brought you to this story, I'm sorry it's not really discussed. I've got an idea percolating for a side story set in this universe that's a lot more personal and sweet. Just a moment in time as these two contemplate their recent relationship change. 
> 
> Anywho, for this version of these boys, the idea isn't something they have to discuss for their relationship to proceed. It's almost but not quite a QPR (queer platonic relationship) rather than your traditional love match (though, in my head at least, the love does come to the forefront at a later date).

The case energized Sherlock, and he and John entered the autumn term in high spirits. Both were glad to have a full course load and more interesting classes than had populated their first year of university.

Lestrade began dropping by when investigations at work stalled, mostly to pick Sherlock’s brain, but occasionally to have him do more in-depth investigative work. Sherlock complained about not being able to openly consult with Scotland Yard, but John knew he secretly enjoyed the way it challenged his overdeveloped brain.

And so it went for the rest of their time at university. After John and Sherlock finished their undergraduate work, Sherlock went on for a masters and John attended medical school. By then, they found it easier to live with each than anyone else, so they found a flat off campus—strangely enough, on Baker Street—complete with a darling landlady named Mrs. Hudson, who swore she wasn’t going to cook or clean for them, but did anyway when John was up all night studying or Sherlock was busy with cases (she owed Sherlock for helping get her husband life imprisonment after he was convicted of a double murder).

Once Lestrade had a few years under his belt at the Yard, he was able to convince his bosses to officially hire Sherlock as a consultant. Well, actually it was probably because said bosses got annoyed with Sherlock mass emailing the department, telling them how many ways their deductions were incorrect. In any case, Lestrade kept Sherlock occupied so that John could concentrate on school.

His workload seemed to increase every year, and he found less time to hang out with friends, though he tried to grab a pint with Lestrade on occasion, and Molly would drop by when she was in town for the hols, having chosen a different medical school up north. She still got that doe-eyed look whenever she was around Sherlock, but she swore she wasn’t waiting for him. She was dating some bloke in one of her classes, and John truly hoped it worked out for her.

Lestrade, of course, had broken up with his girlfriend after Sherlock had dropped his lovely bombshell, and started dating another girl almost immediately. When Sherlock couldn’t find anything wrong with her—at least, anything that normal people would consider a bad trait—Lestrade felt comfortable enough to propose. They were married during John’s final year of medical school.

By the time John was well into medical school, he had given up dating. He was with a nice girl named Mary for his entire last year at Prescott, but they called it quits once they both realized John would never be able to give her the attention she deserved. If long labs weren’t keeping John locked down until late in the evening, Sherlock was asking him to help chase down burglars and pick up milk, and it just didn’t seem worth it. He missed it occasionally, but not enough to really care.

Even without a girlfriend, John had to work to juggle his studies and Sherlock’s need for his assistance during big cases. He found himself studying for tests during stakeouts, and he forced Sherlock to help him study after being tempted out of class by Sherlock’s mad schemes.

John was assigned to St. Bart’s to do his foundation program work after his official studies ended, where he worked with Mike the senior warden, who had brought John and Sherlock together so many years before. John eventually realized that though he loved being a doctor, he found just as much, if not more, joy in chasing Sherlock chasing criminals for the Yard. Instead of joining or starting his own practice or getting at job in A&E (where at least he would have had some level of excitement), he settled on locum work at a nearby surgery and occasionally helping Molly out at the Bart’s morgue.

And throughout all the changes, he and Sherlock continued residing at 221B Baker Street, which had become home, and John couldn’t imagine leaving for anything. Not to mention, they had been living together for their entire adult lives, and John wasn’t sure either of them could handle new flatmates.

And so, at the ripe age of twenty-six, John realized that he had basically been married to his flatmate for the past ten years. Well, he supposed he could shorten it to their time in the flat, at the point that they chose to continue living together and John had stopped dating, but Sherlock had been such a large presence from the beginning, that the lines were a bit blurred.

The point was that they did everything together. John dragged Sherlock to drinks with friends, Sherlock dragged John to crime scenes, they hosted Christmas parties at their place, and they visited their respective families together.

So it was without much surprise that, when John awoke in the hospital after being walloped over the head by a criminal that Sherlock had found necessary to chase (even though there were perfectly capable police officers around), Sherlock’s first words to him were, “We should get married.”

John did raise his eyebrows at Sherlock’s willingness to conform to a social convention, to be the one to actually suggest it, but he didn’t say anything.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, apparently deduced John’s train of thought, and hurried on. “This is the third time they have kept me out of your room after an accident.”

“Maybe don’t chase after criminals so that I don’t have to chase after you, and therefore have a reason to be put in the hospital in the first place,” John said groggily, but without censure. He knew Sherlock would never change his methods, but John felt the need to get in at least a light jab to remind Sherlock that more lives than his own were at stake every time he went after a criminal.

Sherlock’s face fell a little. “I don’t force you to follow me. I’m not forcing you to live with me. If you don’t want to, you are able to leave.”

John softened. Even after all of these years, Sherlock still occasionally felt unworthy of John’s friendship. “Sarcasm, Sherlock,” John reminded him softly. “I follow you because I want to. I live with you because I want. And I’ll marry you because I want to.”

For just a second, John saw a spark of happiness on Sherlock’s face that he’d never seen on it before. He’d seen Sherlock happy, of course. When he was on an interesting case, John had to help him rein in his enthusiasm so that he didn’t appear too sociopathic. John had even seen Sherlock content when they had the rare quiet afternoon together, though that never lasted long, with either Sherlock getting bored or something interrupting their quiet time, like a case from Lestrade.

But for just a second, John saw something different on Sherlock’s face, and he wondered if their relationship meant more to Sherlock than John had realized. John had been happy with how their life worked. He knew Sherlock didn’t handle his emotions as most people did, saw them as a weakness. And while he admitted that John was his best friend, there was still a distance there that was not usually present between close friends. But John understood that Sherlock did care for him in his own way, and that had worked for John. Apparently, though, Sherlock was just better at keeping his feelings close to the vest than John had thought possible.

Before John could question it, Sherlock schooled his features and nodded. “Good. Of course, this won’t be a traditional marriage. It’s more for convenience. I know you’ve stopped dating, but feel free to start that back up once you have more time again. I would appreciate it, though, if you kept your relationships sexual only. As your husband, I would still want the majority of your free time focused on me.”

John could have taken the statement as egocentric, but after ten years, he knew his best friend very well. Sherlock had always been a bit possessive of John’s attentions, but John understood that it was just Sherlock’s fear that he could still lose his best friend that spurred the statement. So he smiled and put his hand over Sherlock’s, which was clenching the hospital bed rail. “You are my best friend, Sherlock. You will _always_ be my best friend. So yes, of course my foremost emotional attachment will always be to you.”

Sherlock nodded, appeased, then frowned slightly. “You’re taking this much better than I expected. While not homophobic, you have always been quick to point out to others that we are not a couple.”

John shrugged. “I realized months ago that we actually were one.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Being one who snubs social conventions, I thought it likely you wouldn’t care. I was comfortable with things continuing as they were. But you’re right, with the number of times we’ve each been in the hospital the past few years, a marriage certificate is probably a smart idea.”

“Oh. I suppose that settles it, then. I will take care of everything. Just show up when we need to sign papers, and then we can go back to life as it was.”

There was just a thread of some emotion on Sherlock’s face that John couldn’t figure out. John studied him for a minute, but failed to figure it out. So instead, he chose to tease his friend.

“You’ll do the work?”

“Yes. It was my idea.”

“You. You, William Sherlock Holmes, will do the work.”

“What _are_ you getting at, John?”

John snickered. “You regularly yell at me to come downstairs to bring you your phone, which is always sitting no more than a meter from your person. You can’t be bothered to buy groceries. You refuse to fill out any paperwork for the Yard. And yet you are volunteering to do all of the work for our wedding.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I do work that I want to do. I don’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective. I choose it. I may be a genius, but it still requires me to do work. In this case, I’m choosing to ask you to marry me, so I will indeed do the work. It’s not as if it will be that difficult anyway. Fill out a few forms and escort you to the clerk’s office to finalize it.” A slightly determined look crossed his face. “Unless you want a real wedding? I will learn to fold serviettes in the shape of the Sidney Opera House if you wish.”

John stifled a grin. “A clerk’s wedding is fine, Sherlock. Thought I do appreciate the willingness.”

“And you’re sure you want to do this? I won’t want to give you up down the line. If you’d rather wait for the white picket fence, wife, and 2.5 children, tell me now.”

John thought vaguely of Mary and knew that’s not where he wanted to be. “Completely sure.”

Sherlock nodded. “Now where is that bloody doctor? I’d rather you were in bed at home than in this cesspool of germs.” He got up to go find said doctor when John stopped him.

“Sherlock. You’re my best friend. I think more highly of you than any person I’ve met. I’ve put up with your idiosyncrasies for over ten years now. If that’s not a life-long love, I don’t know what is.”

Just a tiny bit of that happiness John spotted earlier shone through, before Sherlock corralled it into the normal smile he reserved for John. “Good.” With that, he hastened out the door to harass whomever he could find into getting John released.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which vows are said and the boys get their happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, if you made it this far, I appreciate you so much! Again, this was my first attempt at fanfic, so I know the plot was pretty weak, and I'm still figuring out voice and characterization. Thanks for sticking with me. If you have suggestions or questions, leave a comment! And If you're interested in reading more about these boys, let me know. 
> 
> Sherlock's vows come from "The Sign of Three," of course. They're just so lovely and obviously work really well as actual marriage vows (at least Sherlock's version of marriage vows), so I just had to include them. I pulled the text from the so awesome Ariane DeVere's transcript (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/65379.html), then tweaked it to work for my story.

Sherlock and John married two weeks after John’s release from the hospital, with only Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in attendance. Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who suggested they write their own vows. When the request received an eyebrow raise from John, Sherlock sighed his “do keep up, John” sigh.

“This will not be a traditional marriage, and so I will not be held under the bounds of traditional vows. I will only promise you what I have the capability to deliver upon.”

“That actually makes sense, Sherlock.”

“Obviously,” was Sherlock’s acerbic reply.

As they stood in the clerk’s office, Sherlock volunteered to go first.

“All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.” Mrs. Hudson gasped and Lestrade groaned, but John trusted his friend, so he smiled at them both, then focused on his soon-to-be-husband’s words. “John, you are the most amazing man I’ve ever met. If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that you have many fine qualities of your own that you have overlooked in your obsession with me.” John rolled his eyes, but let Sherlock continue. “Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast you so selflessly provide, John. I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. One who is uncomprehending in the face of the happy. And although I have known you for ten years and can see a person’s life story within moments of meeting them, I was still surprised when you agreed to marry me. I never expected to be anybody’s best friend, let alone someone’s husband. Certainly not the best friend and husband of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.

“John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. I can read a crime scene the way you can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special―quite frankly, I still do. I will solve the murder, but it takes you, John, to save a life. Trust me on that―I should know. You’ve saved mine so many times and in so many ways.

“And so it is with cold reason for once shoved to the side that I ask you, John Hamish Watson, to be a part of my life for as long as we’re both on this planet. I promise to keep you safe—well, aside from chasing criminals, which I know you enjoy just as much as I do—I promise to keep you happy—although that won’t stop me from composing songs at 3 am—and I promise to stand by your side and support you for the rest of my life.”

John laughed at Sherlock’s asides, but he knew Sherlock did intend to keep those promises to the best of his ability. With a nod from Sherlock, John began.

“Sherlock. You call yourself the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet, and while many people might agree with that sentiment, I never have. You have your idiosyncrasies, of course, and many of them are quite difficult to live with, but every little quirk makes you the man you are. The amazing, bloody brilliant detective who has saved more lives than probably anyone else in this room, and that’s saying something, when there’s both a doctor and a Scotland Yard detective present. I saw you first and foremost as the smartest person I’d ever met—and I stand by that statement, Mycroft be damned—but through time, I came to see that there was more to you than intellect.

“You may think that you need me to make sure you care for others, but I didn’t make sure you cared for me. You did that on your own. And if I did play some part in making you a better person, you made me a better person, too. I will never be a genius. I will always be an unobservant idiot.” Sherlock nodded, but there was a soft smile on his face. “But I worked my ass off in school and at my job so that you might feel some small measure of pride in me. You have these impossible standards that you somehow think I can reach. I can’t, but that doesn’t make me angry. It just makes me want to try harder.

“And so it is with pride, William Sherlock Holmes, that I promise to become the man that you think that I am. I promise to keep you safe—yes, I do like chasing criminals with you, but even if I hated it, I’d do it to make sure you live another day—I promise to make you happy—which you know means gallons of tea and tins of biscuits—and I promise to stand by your side and support you for the rest of my life.”

The clerk stared at them bemusedly while Mrs. Hudson wept openly and even Lestrade seemed to be dabbing away a few tears. “Okay,” the man finally said. “You two seem like quite a pair. Umm, I now pronounce you legally wed.”

John and Sherlock shared matching grins. Most people didn’t understand their relationship, but that didn’t matter. As Sherlock would say, the only thoughts that mattered were their own.

 

The end.


End file.
